Seven days. A rough, terrible number. A number that seethes and moans. I have hardly left my bed. I have missed five days of school. Now I’m not sure how I’ll ever go back. Dad is away on business. I told Mom I was sick. This is the truth. I am sick. And hungry.In the grocery store: I flick my eyes back and forth down aisle nine. Household items. Rows of toilet paper and paper towels and cleaning products and scouring pads in rows. Colors that don’t go together.A bin in front of me full of pink and yellow sponges: A small neon sign: 50% OFF!!! The tingle starts in my feet and shoots through me like a current, all at once. My eyes swim in my skull. An old lady across the aisle puts a twenty-four pack of Fluffy Dream brand toilet paper into her cart. The voice in my brain clicks on: NOW. I reach into the sale bin. Pull out three sponges. Stuff them into my pockets—the pressure in my chest breaking up—before I pay for my other groceries. Dad’s the designated grocery buyer, but he’s been on a business trip to San Francisco.
